


Secret Ingredients

by JazzRaft



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Fluff and Humor, Food Porn, Implied Sexual Content, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2018-12-01 22:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/pseuds/JazzRaft
Summary: Ignis is a kitchen witch that runs the successful trattoria, Specs'. He weaves spells for well-being into his diners' meals and casts a different kind of magic over his lover, Noctis. Everything's perfect.Then, a bar opens up across the street.





	1. aphrodisiac

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aithilin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/gifts).



> I have dubbed July the month of giftfics for the buds. Just 'cause.

When tourists to Insomnia were recommended to Specs’, they expected to look for a local dive bar. There was something about a single-syllabled possessive noun that implied visions of a simple, singularly run establishment. Perhaps a hole-in-the-wall place with a pudgy, grease-stained chef in the back and one, weary waitress bringing cheap beers to booths of slouching, sullen-eyed patrons just coming off of a graveyard shift.

Newcomers to the Crown City never expected to follow the given directions to Specs’ and discover the cozy corner of elegant cuisine and exquisite company at the heart of the city. Rustic, red-bricked walls were always a delightful surprise. Broad, neatly cut arches opened the main dining room to the outdoor area, which was illuminated by strings of soft patio lights and decorative, bronze lampposts in each corner. Every door and every window was open to the warm evening, framed in cinnamon curtains to invite guests in.

Mahogany chairs were set around tables draped in white tablecloths, all sprawled across a gleaming, hardwood floor that reflected the bare lights netted across a barer ceiling. Sturdy, wooden support beams crossed evenly overhead. Shingled alcoves shielded the bar on one side and the corner for a pizza oven across from it. An immaculately organized wall of wine bottles decorated the back of the bar, dark reds and sparkling whites glittering like sunlight over lake-water.

Chalkboard menus hung along the walls, spaced between framed photographs of scenic, Accordon venues to match the trattoria’s theme. An espresso machine rumbled at the back of the restaurant, guarding the swinging doors to the kitchen and monitoring the swift back-and-forth delivery of orders between wait staff and chefs in the kitchen window.

Strings of music lapped from unseen speakers – the lazy wheeze of accordions, the strum of guitars, and the lull of old jazz. The loudest music came from the bustle of diners themselves. Inside and out, every table was filled with the chorus of tinkling wineglasses, clicking silverware, and the temperate hum of laughter and uplifting conversation.

There was magic in every sensation at Specs’: the sights, the sounds, and the _smells_. Garlic and herbs, sautéed onions and peppers, smoking meats and briny seafood, and the beautiful, baking scent of pizza crusts in the roaring oven.

Once the wine started flowing and lips loosened to swallow forkfuls of fresh pasta and fragrant, rosemary breads dunked in olive oil, the questions of culinary witchcraft began.

Rarely was there a night that Noctis walked into Specs’ and the first thing he heard wasn’t awe along the lines of, “This is so good it’s magical!” It made him smile every time, so that when he was whisking past the pizza station, Gladio was already prepared with a teasing remark from behind the stone counter.

“Keep that goofy grin on your face and people will start to think you sample your merchandise,” Gladio barked over his shoulder, dragging a finished pie from the oven.

“Couldn’t make my recommendations if I didn’t.”

Noctis backpedaled to the outgoing tray that the pizza was expertly transferred to when he noticed what was on it. Shieldshear claw meat, sweet peppers, and sheep milk cheese atop a pink sauce that Noctis knew – from nodding along to midnight recipe ramblings – was made of more sheep milk, garlic, some shallots, and pureed pinkshrimp imported from Cape Caem. Gladio slid the pie out from under his probing nose as Noctis sidled up to the counter to salivate over the steaming masterpiece.

“ _Yes_ , it’s the new specialty. _No_ , you cannot taste-test during business hours. Take it up with the boss.”

“I intend to,” Noctis intoned.

Prompto made a gagging noise as he looped around the pizza voyeur to spirit the pie to its rightful recipients, and Gladio rolled his eyes to match.

“Just keep your intentions out of the break room this time?” Prompto begged, balancing the pizza tray on his free hand while the other bundled the stems of fresh wineglasses between his fingers. “Or put up an ‘occupied’ sign, please.”

“Take it up with the boss,” Noctis said, shooting a sharp smile at Gladio.

“This is an abuse of power, I tell ya,” Prompto sighed in traditionally, over-dramatic fashion before putting on his service smile and weaving his delivery around the crowded tables.

Gladio shook his head at Noct’s wry grin, distracting himself with rolling out some fresh dough for the next order so he didn’t have to think about what the wine distributor and the head chef got up to in all the dark corners of the trattoria that he dare not stray into.

As entertaining as it was to watch Gladio spin pizza dough through the air like a cowboy whipping lassos over garula tusks, Noctis skimmed along the edges of the dining room to slip inside the kitchen. The bustling back room was just as rustically furnished as the rest of the restaurant, but without the vintage appliances to match. Cherry-wood cabinets were mounted on the sandy, brick walls. Bay windows were thrown open to catch the night air and release the waves of heat from the stoves. It was open and easy to maneuver around, always neat and tidy, even underneath the chaos of the dinner rush.

“Specs” kept the chaos contained, wielded it like any other energy he’d mastered. He was always at the epicenter of the kitchen, chopping or stirring or rubbing down fillets, never straying too far off his axis so as not to disturb the organized orbit of sous-chefs around him. He was the beating heart of the restaurant; take him out and the whole body collapsed. Thankfully for Noctis, his consistency made him easy to find.

“I’m hurt that you sent out the specialty without giving me a sneak peek,” Noctis said, spinning and ducking around outgoing servers as he made his way to the center island. “I thought that wasn’t going on the menu until Saturday?”

“It was, but then you left me alone with the seafood specialist and things got out of hand.”

Coctura snorted from the other end of the island where she was cracking open crab legs. Ignis smirked over his pan of sizzling aromatics like he was musing over an inside joke. Noctis pouted as he hopped up onto a stool beside him.

“I knew you were going to be trouble when we stole you out of the Pearl,” Noctis teased Coctura. “Now you’re stealing my tasting privileges.”

“It was only one night, I promise,” she teased back, dumping lumps of crab meat into one pot before swiveling around the island to another. “I’m sure he’ll make it up to you.”

“Damn right he will.”

“Right I will,” Ignis agreed, sweeping a few steps away from his pan to check on a nearby roast. “How’s that alfredo coming along?”

“Done,” Coctura confirmed as she ladled smooth, white sauce over a plate of gnocchi.

“And the risotto?”

“Two minutes, chef!” shouted another sous-chef without turning from his work.

Ignis gave his sauté pan an expert toss, dumped it into another sauce pot, stirred, and set the lid over it to finish. He gave his domain another once-over, hefted out a satisfied sigh then, finally turned a smile over to Noctis.

“Hello, by the way.”

“Hey.” Noctis craned his head up for a kiss. “Caught you at a bad time?”

“Never. You’re a little earlier than I expected, though.”

“Dad wanted me to check in and see how the new stock was being received. I’ll be happy to tell him it’s a hit! Saw a lot of bottles going between tables.”

“They do like their reds here.”

“Along with everything else.”

Ignis smiled, glancing between him and the time on the roast. “Compliments this early in the evening? What are you hoping to win tonight?”

“A slice of that pizza, paired with that new Merlot.”

Noctis draped an arm over the counter, pitching his gaze up at Ignis through his bangs, lips curling into a smirk. Ignis might have been the master of the kitchen, but Noctis was the master of getting what he wanted. Not that Ignis was very hard to convince.

“You drive a hard bargain,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, taking his roast out of the oven as the timer ran out. “But I suppose if I must stay in the good graces of my distinguished distributor, you’ll have your wine and dine.”

“That’s my Specs.”

It was another few hours before closing time, but Noctis had learned to be patient. He bore an odd fondness for the crowded kitchen for someone who had a healthy aversion to crowds in general. Specs’ kitchen was unique in that it wasn’t a competitive place. Concentrated, but never callous. Ignis hired people who were calm, cooperative, and creative. There were no egos to bruise or skulls to smash. It was the most contented culinary establishment Noctis had ever partnered with. More of the magic that bewitched diners and workers alike.

While the cozy closeness of the dinner crowd made for comfortable company, after-hours at Specs’ were his favorite time of day. For purely selfish reasons. He got the maestro of marinades all to himself in the quiet of phantom laughter and empty plates. The glass doors shut, the dining room lights dimmed down low, and the little din of music went silent. The kitchen hugged happy echoes of “see you tomorrow” as the staff departed for the evening. Specs’ always exuded ease. The joy of its patrons steeped into the walls, the little trattoria tenderly holding onto the satisfied endearments of its guests. People always left Specs’ full of a little bit more than a good meal.

“Did Gladio let you charm the crab meat like you wanted?”

Ignis made an abortive noise, as if Noctis didn’t already know the answer. Gladio was invaluable to their artisan pizza selection. He was always open to new recipes, no matter if he lifted a skeptical brow at a few. If he ever had doubts, he was often proven wrong or made a suggestion that could offer him the rare stare of bewildered awe from Ignis because _why didn’t he think of that?_ Gladio loved his job and Ignis loved having him on staff. But the pizza maker relied on one rule to keep him on the payroll.

_“Keep the magical mumbo jumbo out of my oven.”_

“If he would just let me infuse a few drops of my potion into the sauce, that crab could be just as much of an aphrodisiac as our oysters.”

“In the mood for match-making lately, huh?”

Noctis lifted a brow, smirking around the rim of his wine glass as he washed down a bite of the pizza in question. Ignis munched on a generous mouthful himself. Maintaining the energies that helped to aid the atmosphere of Specs’ always left him ravenous at the end of the day. Despite his friends’ assurances that he didn’t need to cast too much for people to be happy here, Noctis still caught him whispering spells over particular orders.

He put spells for joy and good fortune into the lasagna going to a table for one. He sprinkled chamomile into the third round of coffees for the booth full of university students. He threw in a dash of crushed fennel seeds and murmured a prayer for longevity in the bouillon going to the elderly couple at table ten.

Most of all, as of late, it was love incantations that he worked over the most. Extra cinnamon in the cake going to the attractive blond man with the sad blue eyes at the bar. A special dash of cacao in the cupcakes shared between the giddy girls at table six. Hibiscus in the nervous pair’s iced tea, bouncing knees and wringing hands and trying so hard to give off a good impression at table twelve.

“It’s your fault,” Ignis mumbled, gulping down some of the Merlot, pausing to consider the taste, and nodding in approval. “Impeccable.”

“Impeccable fault or impeccable wine?”

“Both. Always.”

“You can punish me when you take me home.”

“I don’t remember dessert being a part of the bargain,” Ignis chuckled.

“What kind of establishment are you running if you don’t have dessert? You’re getting two stars on Kweh.”

“I was told that love would inevitably betray me. Now I owe a shaman in Cavaugh a paella recipe.”

“Keep the recipe,” Noctis laughed, slipping off his stool and dancing his fingers along Ignis arm as he passed around him. “Let’s go make something else together.”

Ignis’ self-control was maddening sometimes. Noctis didn’t know if that was one of the virtues of being a witch or one of the curses. Either way, leaning against the kitchen door and waiting for him to deposit the plates and glasses in the washing machine made Noctis gnaw on his lip to keep himself composed from his impatience. Maybe Ignis really had snuck a little aphrodisiac in that pizza. Noctis felt a little more anxious and eager for Ignis tonight.

Ignis went through the routine of closing up the restaurant, meeting Noctis outside and finishing off his lock-up with a quick murmur to strengthen the wards around the doors before looping his arm through his and leading him the next few steps to his apartment.

Ignis was protective of his little Specs’. It had been his pride and his joy for years now, and had become the focal point of his powers. He didn’t like to be too far away from it. So, he had a little studio apartment just next door. He could see Specs’ and the street around it from his window. Could be assured that it was safe and sleeping and could smile over all that it gave him, late at night in bed when he mused over his own happiness, Noctis tucked into his side.

A bit of a contrast in neatness, coming straight from the clean comforts of the trattoria. Specs’ got busier in the summers. Ignis lost the time to keep his own apartment in order when the restaurant needed it more. Bundles of herbs cloyed in every corner, the counter-tops clustered with wooden bowls full of them and a few mortars still perfuming with grounds he hadn’t finished with the night before. Spell-books and cookbooks alike were open in disarray on each table. His alchemy desk was a special sort of nightmare in disorganization, especially next to the careful order of his shelves bulging with home-made potions.

He huffed at the mess as he locked the door behind them. He almost intended to deal with the matter immediately, if not for Noct’s intent to distract him. Noctis slipped out of his jacket on his way to the bed, discarding it over one of Ignis’ own, draped and forgotten over one of the kitchen chairs.

“Noct…” Ignis started, trying to swallow down his desire and wrestle with the necessity to get his house in order. “There’s a lot of work I still need to do.”

“Mmhm.”

With his back to Ignis, Noctis shrugged a shoulder from beneath the shirt he’d finished unbuttoning, casting a spell of his own with the way he crooked his face over the pale flesh and beckoned Ignis closer with a slow blink of his eyes. That was really magic, Ignis thought, because it damn well worked.

The grin on Noct’s face broadened as Ignis was coaxed into following him. He turned to face him and alighted onto the edge of the bed, letting his shirt slide down his arms with torturous slowness before slipping out of the sleeves and reaching up to divest Ignis of his, as well.

“How would you like me served this evening?”

It was dangerous to fall in love with a smile like that, paired with a voice like his. Noctis was a soft night, in all ways. There was always a danger to the dark. It was full of surprises, sneaking through the shadows just out of sight. Yet, it mystified wanderers in the late evening and delighted those who did not fear it. The night was an embrace for those who would accept it. It was full of the quiet life of distant traffic and singing crickets. It was a cool balm for the sting of the day; a consoling companion, fingers of moonlight shrouding sore skin.

Noctis looked up at him through the fan of his hair, hands sliding between the undone buttons of Ignis’ shirt, silver over delicate gold. Noctis touched up and down the length of his chest teasing the fabric of his shirt further apart while he waited for his response. One benefit to the messy apartment was that the hurricane collapse of his clothes everywhere provided helpful inspiration.

Ignis reached for the black silk tie wound around the bedside lamp. Noct’s gaze went electric, lids hooding and smirk sharpening as he presented his wrists to Ignis’ deft hands.

“Long day?” he asked, eyes on Ignis’ face while Ignis focused on the careful looping of silk around slim wrists.

“Very.”

Noctis leaned up when Ignis finished to give him a kiss; a sweet, lingering press of velvety lips, more decadent than any confection Ignis could craft, magical or not. Noctis smiled, lop-sided and sympathetic to the wear of the day taking its toll on him. He sprawled back on the bed in one long, languid movement, tied hands tossed over his head. The picture of enticing submission, bidding him to partake in that luscious flesh.

“Work your magic on me, Specs.”

He never did though. Ignis never used the same craft on Noctis that he chanted into his rosemary breads or infused in his olive oils. He didn’t have to cast a hex on him to bind him to him. An old tie sufficed just fine. He was enchanted by no spell more than the touch of skin, didn’t have to recite arcane texts for them both to start chanting sacred mantras.

This was all true magic. Specs’ success, his heart in Noct’s were things he couldn’t snap his fingers and have at his whim. While there was lavender in the pillows and sage permeating the apartment, it hadn’t taken spell-crafting to be truly happy. This little corner of Insomnia was his world. One of peace and quiet and smooth indulgences.

Then, a bar opened up across the street.


	2. set to simmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some new customers venture to taste the magic of Specs'. And maybe share a little of their own.

For a city that never slept, Insomnia rarely changed. Ignis could wake up at the same time every day and look out his window to the same old buildings surrounding his same, perfect Specs’. The sleepy little street corner, tucked beneath the gossamer mists of the early morning, was as intimately familiar to him as the body sleeping in his bed. He knew every dip and curve and had traversed every inch of its sultry avenues until he could trace it as clearly as his own reflection.

So, when he stalked over to his window, a freshly-brewed cup of coffee in hand, ready to breathe in the fresh dawn, the bright purple umbrellas across the street were like a great big crack in his mirror.

An open pavilion with a mosaic floor, clipping together to create no discernable design; merely wild, twisting patterns and terra cotta colors. Potted foliage divided the seating arrangements in some chaotic interpretation of order, mostly tall, drooping palms and a variety of cacti with softer edges than their famed, prickly cousins. Modest glass table-tops and sloping wicker chairs pillowed with matching beige cushions were arranged beneath the umbrellas. And there were _a lot_ of them. As if the space was not merely an outdoor dining nook, but the main floor for serving patrons.

There was a long counter facing the seating area, tucked beneath the awning of the building that pressed protectively against the canopy of umbrellas. Wooden shutters were closed within the window and an unlit neon sign dozed just above it. Ignis couldn’t read the scratchy script from his window. Noctis woke up to him leaning halfway out of it to get a better look.

“Fleeing out the fire escape, Specs? This the part where you tell me it’s you and not me?”

“Flee my own apartment? I’d worry too much about leaving you alone with my kitchen to do that.”

Noctis smiled, slow and sleepy and effortlessly distracting in the simple act of waking. Soft from slumber and warmed by sex, he filled Iggy’s bed as comfortably as if it were his own. Slim, supple arms folded beneath his head, cradled in the silken sink of the pillows underneath. Raven hair thrown in sharp relief against the white cases, every twist and tangle an echo of the impassioned chords Ignis had tugged and teased from the curve of his throat. The tie lay looped along his shoulders, lazily discarded to drape across cooling flesh, with the ends left to be caught for playing or for gently pulling around the back of his neck into grateful kisses.

Noctis tempted him back to bed with a long, languid blink, more bewitching than any charm Ignis could craft into his cuisine. The naked slope of his back was presented to him like a bare dish, craving the decadence of whatever delicacy his hands wished to prepare for him. Noctis shifted when Ignis was not immediately beckoned, the subtle movement a deliberate action to let the bedsheet slip further down his backside. Petulance pecked into his hoarse voice, graveled with the disuse of sleep and the vocals from the lingering evening still steeped into his skin.

“Is that view so much better than this one?”

He dipped his head towards the window, hardly lifting his face from his arms in his sluggish state. Ignis smiled at the effort, all too friendly with Noct’s disdain for the mornings. He appreciated the sleepy show of seduction, coveting Noct’s come-hither eyes, hazed and hooded and hungry for him. But just at the edge of his eyes, right in that blurry corner where the edge of his glasses ended, were those purple umbrellas.

They hadn’t been there before. _Nothing_ had been there before. It had been an empty storefront for quite a few months, the proprietor of the antique shop having passed away and leaving the business to children that were eager to get rid of it. It wasn’t Iggy’s business to know the logistics of how the space was cleared out, abandoned, and never re-occupied. It had no effect on his own business but for making the view for his outdoor diners a little more dismal than he might have liked. Nothing a string of lights and a turn of a chair couldn’t solve.

Yesterday, right up until closing time, the same vacant space had been gathering dust across the street. Now, not one night later, a fully furnished exotic retreat brightened the other side of the avenue.

Noctis huffed, pouting in the other corner of Iggy’s distracted attention. “Fine, fine _._ I know I can’t compete with Specs’. Go! Be with your one true love.” He sighed dramatically and rolled to face away, pulling the sheets back up and hugging the pillows beneath his head.

Ignis shook his head, lips curling over his coffee. He spared one more suspicious glance out the window before approaching the bed. The scent of lavender brushed faintly throughout the pillows, laundered in Iggy’s potion for healing the evening restlessness in his partner. He administered his remedy for pretend malcontent in the form of soft kisses along the vertebrae of his spine. Lips warm with coffee slipped across the knobs of bone, dimpling delicate flesh and pulling taut as the body beneath him attempted to resist the treatment.

“Come now,” Ignis crooned, sinking a knee into the mattress, the old springs moaning mutely beneath the weight. “Will you forgive me the distraction if I make your favorite coffee? Hazelnut, extra foam. A pinch of cocoa powder, maybe a little cinnamon…”

“Trying to trick me into forgiving you with a love tonic, Specs?” Noctis mumbled from the pillows, stubbornly hugging the material deeper around his face to avoid Iggy’s eye and hide from his kiss.

“Never, love. You know I’d never cast on you. Bribery, however…”

Ignis lets his kisses travel higher, lifting the hairs on the nape of Noct’s neck and leaving whispers of breath along his scalp. He teased an end of the tie around his finger, silk spiraling around fingertips perfumed by all the fragrances and flavors of the world to better season Noct’s heart and Specs’ soul. The two ends of the tie came together between thumb and forefinger, and Ignis tugged on the neck of his willing captive. Noctis whined as his face was pulled from the retreat of the pillows, his eyes dull with contempt. Ignis smirked in spite of it, tightening his grip just enough to make Noct’s sleepy limbs shudder. Gratified by the response, Ignis dipped his face to the lips beneath him, twilit with the ghosts of his kisses.

“Must I remind you of who exactly is in the position to beg for forgiveness?”

Noctis snorted in laughter, the false scowl on his face lifting into a smile. He wriggled his arms around Iggy’s neck, pressing him into bonds of his own. “Please, Specs. I might let you tie me up, but we both know that I’ve got you in knots.”

Noctis craned his neck up as Ignis gently pulled on the tie, pushing into a lazy, lapping kiss. Wine lingered faintly on Noct’s tongue, stale with the stagnation of slumber. Ignis sighed against his mouth, coffee-breath making Noct’s nose wrinkle in playful disgust. “I’d say let’s prove that…”

“But it’s too early,” Noctis groaned, nudging his face into the crook of Iggy’s neck.

“Coffee it is, then.”

* * *

Ignis had almost written off the new eatery across the street as some hallucinogenic daydream – perhaps he’d been growing the wrong mushroom on his top shelf after all. But as he parted ways with Noctis on the sidewalk an hour after tempting him from bed with magic coffee, the looming threat of spontaneous competition still occupied the other half of the street.

That Galahd Shack, was what the unlit script scrawled over the window said. Well, what they lacked in ambiguity they made up for in authentic décor, Ignis supposed. He’d traveled to the small cluster of islands a scant few times in his formative years of practicing magic. The witches there were able to help a young spellcaster, exhausted by the unruliness of his own power, learn how to ground it in the formation of certain wards. They’d also shown him a thing or two about what brand of beer went best in a boozy, cheesy soup.

The plants were right, the floor was right, and if there was a kitchen behind that closed counter, then the style of service he remembered from most of the open huts in the dry region would be right, too. But the fact that it had just _appeared over night_ was not right. Not at all. Gladio agreed as much when he came in.

“You didn’t end up braising last night’s tenderloin with some kind of illusion magic, right? Or am I just that crazy for not noticing a bar across the street until now?”

“Is there really? However could that have gotten there?”

Gladio snorted, a deep huff like a behemoth’s snore. Not much surprised the big man. An exotic bar appearing out of thin air across the street, his boss being a practitioner of the arcane arts and sprinkling spells into his five-star dishes, catching his best friend since childhood over a barrel in the wine cellar with that same practicing witch… It would take Bahamut descending from the heavens Himself to make Gladio blink – and even then, one couldn’t bet money on it.

“You didn’t see that coming? Don’t you witchy types have ESP or something?”

Ignis rolled his eyes. “Tapping into another witch’s energy to sense their whereabouts is the equivalent of pressing one’s ear to a door to overhear elicit transpirings. It’s considered impolite.”

“Like dropping in unannounced is considered ‘impolite?’”

Ignis grit his teeth and deigned not to reply, lest he allow his displeasure towards the abrupt intrusion to be known. While he wasn’t the type of witch to sneer at trespassers and threaten doom upon their houses for knocking at his shack in the woods, he also wasn’t the type that appreciated surprises. Especially not ones that had the potential to threaten his way of life. Both as a restauranteur and an undercover practitioner of magic, the spontaneous construction of another eatery was unsettling in more ways than one. Business competition was one thing – one that he hardly anticipated any challenge from – but such an obvious application of the arcane showed an alarming disregard for the rules of magical conduct in pedestrian society.

Witchcraft was not a common practice within Insomnia. It was widely accepted as nothing more than folklore or the basic, holistic knowledge of the medicinal properties of certain herbs, veiled in the superstitions and fairytales spoken down generations. While it was some of that, there was far more to it, and much of it was kept secret from a world that was hell-bent on exploiting ancient magic to power warships and magitek and other monstrosities. While a restaurant did not a war-mongering world crisis make, the lack of subtly to his new neighbors concerned Ignis nevertheless. As if people _weren’t_ going to notice the lack of progress made on any new construction in the months it typically took beforehand to establish a new building?

…They didn’t notice. At least not in the way Ignis was expecting. Sure, the subject of the lunchtime chatter was curiously inclined towards That Galahd Shack – the more he heard people use it, the more Ignis realized just how ingenious the name truly was. No one seemed to have noticed that it was impossible for the place to exist. The most confusion Ignis heard come through the kitchen doors from the diners was a vacant, “When did that get there?” Immediately followed by an, “Ah, well, check it out later this week with me?”

Ignis wasn’t sure what he expected: the docile regulars suddenly lighting torches and raising pitchforks to march down the avenue; the nomadic walk-ins, delirious with hunger, to suddenly sharpen with violent suspicion; the frazzled workers, desperately escaping their offices for a lunch break, to forsake their cozy and affordable retreat with fanatical accusations? He surprised himself with the paranoid delusions. He changed with the street view, it would seem.

Ignis forced his focus into what mattered: casting wellness into excellent food for the contentment his patrons trusted to gain from a well-spent visit at Specs’. There was rosemary to infuse into the olive oil and thyme to knead into the bread and basil to puree for the pesto. There were spirits to calm and stomachs to satisfy, and as long as he had customers to serve, he couldn’t allow the quality of his cuisine to diminish because he was distracted with unwanted and unwarranted thoughts of an imagined demise.

The lunch rush went by in the amiable chaos with which it always blurred past, lulling into the transitional quiet before dinner hours. Ignis was prompted to take a break during this period, swatted out of the kitchen by an insistent sous-chef and strong-armed to a back table by the pizza-maker before he could wheel back around through the swinging doors. Once Coctura set an unsold sandwich in front of him, he was doomed to remain until it was finished – it would have been a waste to leave it unenjoyed.

Specs’ was taking its deep, bracing breaths between the downpours of starved customers, hungry in stomach as well as in soul. Tables were being cleared and set for the next rushing wave like beach sand after high tide. The wait staff traded shifts, the outgoing workers waving their farewell to him as they headed home for the evening. Prompto came in for the dinner shift, trading off with an exiting employee and pointing in perplexed fascination at the new place across the street. He gave Ignis a bemused look as he passed, but Ignis could only shrug and shake his head.

That Galahd Shack remained closed throughout the day. The neon sign stayed unlit, the order window stayed closed, and the pavilion stayed empty, even as the dinner traffic began to trickle in through the open doors. As he was finishing his food and clearing the table, Ignis watched the next few groups of people come in.

A few of their regulars – the elderly couple that Ignis feverishly crafted longevity spells for because they were too kind to let die, natural processes be damned; the small family of three with the daughter preparing for her first day of school in the fall and loved the acorn tea Ignis brewed to empower her wisdom in the coming trial of tests and temperamental toddlers. The lovelorn blond man from the night before returned to the bar, a little less sadness in his eyes as he ordered his first drink. A young couple of girls with the fair features of Tenebrae came in, wide-eyed and complimenting the décor as they were seated. And a pair of tall, casually dressed gentlemen with broad shoulders and braided hair lounged in the corner booth closest to the kitchen as Ignis was returning to said sanctuary of simmering sauces and searing succulence.

He didn’t leave it again until, a short time later, a long forgotten custom of either uncommon compliment or misplaced avarice lured him back out. Someone _asked to see the chef._ While the graciousness of Specs’ patrons was awarded with paid bills and generous tips, rarely, if ever, did a diner recall the time-worn tradition of complimenting the unseen curator of their meal face to face. Nor was it praise – or, even rarer, a complaint – that Ignis was expectantly waiting to receive every time a plate left the kitchen.

So, when Prompto poked his head in and announced this old, unexpected order, it was another surprise on a distressingly increasing list for his day. It was from one of the strangers with the braided hair in the corner booth. Heavy-set and square-faced with drowsy, expressive lines sloping throughout his features, the requester was just finishing off a slice of one of Specs’ artisan pizzas – thin, smoked slices of gighee ham and sweet clumps of anak meat with a spicy pepper sauce and ladles of sheep’s milk cheese melted with a blend of shier turmeric and kettier ginger. A rustic meal finished off with an amber ale recommended by personal preference from Specs’ invaluable distributor.

Given the emptiness of the plates and the contented eye roll of the diner, Ignis felt assured that his summons was not to be railed at by a dissatisfied customer. That would have been the biggest surprise of his day by far. Ignis presents himself as always to a discerning dish-taster, with arms folded behind his back, feet set an even distance apart, and a nod of his head.

“Was everything to your liking today, sir?”

The man swallowed his last bite and nodded, tangled between taking his time chewing because he wanted to savor the final morsel and finishing fast enough to answer the question.

“Pleasantly surprised, chef.”

Ignis was never certain if that was really a compliment or not, but semantics didn’t have a seat at the dinner table. “I’m happy to hear it, sir. Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“How about a drink for yourself and a sit down? They can spare you a couple minutes back there, right?”

He indicated the kitchen and the muted noises of Coctura’s control within. Ignis was bemused by the invitation. As if the request to call him from the kitchen wasn’t unusual enough, a customer had never asked for him to sit down with them for a spell. He considered the empty seat across from the man, searching for the appropriate etiquette to decline the offer.

“Your companion…”

The man glanced across the room and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no, don’t worry about that.  He’ll be a while.”

Ignis followed his stare over to the bar. Noctis was covering for the regular bartender while she was on break, chatting with the other braided stranger. His back was to Ignis, leaning against the counter with the casual grace of an idle coeurl, lounging on the sun-baked stones of Leide. The severe lines of his shoulders creased through the fabric of his shirt, rolling with liquid laughter at whatever charm Noctis played up to earn a bigger tip.

“Sit!” Iggy’s present companion insisted. “Have a drink so I can try and trick some trade secrets out of you.”

Ignis smiled mildly in response to the hearty laugh. He wasn’t sure what to make of the stranger and his amiable persistence. The dinner crowd had steadied for the evening and his staff was more than capable of functioning without his orders. Nevertheless, he felt odd sitting down in the plush booth when there were full tables to serve. But if being friendly with a new customer could encourage him to return, then it was all the better for business, he supposed.

“Do you do much cooking yourself?” Ignis asked.

“A fair bit, yeah,” he chuckled. “I’ve been head chef of my family’s place since I was old enough not to set the place on fire. Fourth generation.”

“Quite a storied lineage, then.”

“There’s stories alright,” the man chuckled. “If I started telling them now, we’d be stuck here for months.”

Ignis smiled and nodded and wasn’t sure what else to do but that. The stranger didn’t seem to desire anything in particular out of him – he didn’t ask after his secret recipes or start writing out any generous investments as a business partner to the place. While he didn’t ask for anything in words, Ignis did get the sense that he was being… measured. It wasn’t the same as the chin-lifted arrogance of a health inspector or the groomed scorn of an undercover restaurant critic. He didn’t feel ill at ease about it, as if this stranger were a judge balancing the scales of his livelihood for some trial he had yet to testify in.

He wasn’t sure what he felt. Not until the man’s companion returned from the bar. The feeling became more pronounced then: two parts curiosity to one part mischief. It was so much more prominent in the charismatic curl of the man’s smile.

“Has he introduced us yet or is he still slathering on the butter?”

Ignis was surprised to find his preferred cocktail slipped in front of him as the new stranger leaned against the booth beside his friend. He slid a glance over to the bar where the purveyor of his untold preferences merely shrugged. It wasn’t apologetic. In fact, Noctis had made himself quite comfortable at the end of the bar, leaning against the counter and grinning at the booth, as if he was expecting something of particular significance to happen. He never was very subtle.

“I didn’t realize that introductions were in order,” Ignis said to his two guests, running a critical look over the wilier looking man that had snuck his favorite drink out of Noctis.

“It’s only neighborly, right?” the man said, taking a drink from the beer he’d procured for himself before tapping it against Iggy’s glass. “I’m Nyx. This is Libs.”

“Libertus,” he corrected. “He calls me Libs.”

“And you’re the man behind the magic here, right?” Nyx asked, pointing his glass out to the rest of the restaurant. “Specs himself?”

“Ignis.” It was odd to hear his nickname on anyone else’s lips but Noct’s. “Then I trust I have you to thank for the change in scenery across the street.”

“Not thrilled with the idea of some healthy competition?”

There was a glint in Nyx’s eye over the rim of his glass. A bounce of the overhead lights off the burnt amber liquid, perhaps. A shimmer of golden light in otherwise silvery-blue eyes. But Ignis could _feel_ it as much as see that the man was more than he appeared to be. Schooled in a different craft than Ignis was – something steady and wild and damnit if it wasn’t magnetic too – but another witch, nevertheless. Of course he was.

“Competition? I’m afraid we don’t serve that here. Only prize dishes.”

Nyx’s grin broadened, crooked smoothly into his cheek while Libertus laughed beside him. Libertus waved for the check and Prompto swiftly skated by with a pile of plates for the kitchen, a bill for the table, and an intrigued grin for Ignis. He would want to know all about the tall, tanned strangers after closing.

“Afraid that’s all we serve at the Shack, too,” Libertus countered while he handled the bill.

“You should come on over tomorrow night to taste for yourself. I’ve been told you have some free time to spend on a table.”

Ignis glared over at Noctis, satisfying him with the reaction he had been waiting for. He was thanked for it with a coy little wink. He’d pay for it later, Ignis silently promised.

“We’ll keep a table open for you,” Nyx declared, finishing his beer and finally allowing Libertus to escape.

“Nice meeting you, chef,” Libertus said in parting.

They swept out of Specs’ and Ignis was left as stunned to his seat as he was to his window that morning. Noctis slid into the seat across from him once the two men were out the door.

“You handled that better than I thought you would.”

Ignis arched a brow at him. Without breaking eye contact, he raised the cocktail Noctis had so helpfully prepared for Nyx to give him and took a generous swallow of it. He did not intend to forget this betrayal, and if the fall of Noct’s eyelashes was any hint, he intended to remind him if he did. It was hard to be cynical about the unprovoked intrusion into his territory by a rival enchanter’s restaurant when they left such a generous tip.


	3. sautéed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis really wants to hate the place... but it's hard to criticize when even their salads make him want to swoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Ficmas, Aith! Some more scrumptious, magical goodness for good n' yummy cheer~

“It’s awfully drafty.”

Noctis kicked him beneath the table. Then he massaged the toe of his boot against the small, sore spot to apologize for the potential bruise. And, more than likely, to distract Ignis from complaining any further. As if the impish twist of his smile wasn’t distracting enough.

“You’re incorrigible,” Ignis mumbled, crossing his legs to avoid Noct’s ministrations.

“Save the sweet talk for later, Specs. Wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite.”

He wasn’t sure that he had an appetite to spoil. Which wasn’t to say That Galahd Shack wasn’t an appetizing, exotic escape from the monochrome doldrums of inner city foot traffic. Ignis just felt like he had to be critical of the place on principal. They were now his sole competitors within a two block radius. He was well within his rights to be just a tad picky.

As he’d expected from a first glance, the main dining area was the outdoor plaza of purple umbrellas and mosaic tiles, lush with the lazy foliage he just barely recognized from his long-since-past tutelage on the islands. While the place had laid dormant as a mountain for its first few days, That Galahd Shack erupted with energy now that it was open for business.

Music played from seemingly nowhere, a lively drumbeat to drive the pace of the wait-staff, with the wild thrum of sitar strings and high, echoing chants without words that diners could easily catch the tune of and hum along. It was a very _loud_ establishment. Ignis could hardly hear Noctis just an arm’s length across from him. Beneath the roar of the stove-tops blasting behind the bar and the cries of the chefs mastering the flames therein, it was a wonder that the waiter could even hear their order when they placed it.

The whole place was just _chaos_. Utter and unrepentant chaos. There was no order to anything – the mosaic floors, the placement of plants, the routes of the wait staff, the system of the chefs; everything was as sporadic as the initial appearance of the bar in the first place.

And yet, there wasn’t a single dissenting voice buried in the thundercloud of chatter. There was always a server with something to satisfy each and every table while the chefs worked on the orders. There was always a drink being poured, a little wicker boat of brown bread being shared, wooden troughs of fresh cucumber salads, and clay bowls of golden, spicy soup. And no matter how much noise there was, somehow, no one seemed to have to fight to hear what their dining companion said. No one missed a single word.

Part of the magic, Ignis was sure of it. A subtle detail, but a pivotal one. It wouldn’t be an echo of Galahd if there wasn’t plenty of noise. They’d managed to encourage the authenticity of a Galahdian grill without intimidating the plainer temperature of Insomnian diners. They were smart, Ignis would give them that much. And he was surprised at the subtlety, given how brazen they’d been with opening without a single warning beforehand. He was also surprised that enough people knew about the place to attend this little house-warming. He tried not to let himself think about whether or not he recognized half the clientele as his own.

“One order of semur skewers, medium-rare,” their waiter announced, setting a square plate of steaming skewers between them. “And your dinner will be ready shortly. Enjoy!”

He had a smile like cobbled pearls against his dark skin. He’d been charming them with it all evening, smoothly interjecting little jokes and friendly endearments between scribbling down orders. He talked like they’d been coming here for years, grinned at them like they were his best friends. They were all like that, Ignis realized, when he chanced a glance around the pavilion. Though he couldn’t hear any conversation beyond his own table, he could see matching smiles and gestures on every server’s face. It wasn’t the insincere service smile that he scorned at common fast food places. While the service here was just as fast as a more commercial location, it truly seemed friendly. The workers seemed like they genuinely enjoyed their jobs. He would give the place credit for that, at least. They ran their staff honorably so, he supposed he could refrain from hexing the manager.

“Specs, this is the one night all month where you’re _not_ cooking, yet I can still see your brain frying up something.”

Ignis bit the inside of his mouth in silent reprimand and tried to give Noctis his full attention. It was hard not being the one preparing the food for once. He felt out of his element, in more ways than one. From the atmosphere, to the invitation, to his own role in the restaurant dynamic here, he felt exposed. He was used to being behind the kitchen doors, used to being the one challenging customers to find a fault in his own cooking, used to having the power over a place.

This _Nyx_ that had sauntered into his restaurant and drawn him from the cozy confines of his kitchen… He had the power here. He could feel it in the undercurrents of everything. While it was all completely new, he could sense the same energy he’d seen sparking behind Nyx’s eyes the night prior. There was the same wilderness to the air, the same thunder in the cook-fires, all the power distant and dangerous as a storm far out to sea.

He wasn’t intimidated by it. But he was apprehensive. He still didn’t like the fact that the man had been so bold with his magic as to pop up a bar and grill overnight, right within the radius of another witch. He was still uneasy about all the change it would inevitably bring.

“ _Ignis_ , come on,” Noctis pleaded. He only ever called him by his full name when he was getting irritated with him. “You haven’t taken me out on a date in forever. Stop working for an hour and just enjoy yourself. Please?”

“I’d hardly consider this a date, given that I wasn’t even the one that asked you out.”

He forced himself to focus on the table between them. He just focused on listening to Noct’s voice beneath all of the clatter and rabble around him. He didn’t think about whatever auditory spell-work was enacted to allow him to hear.

Noctis was giving him an off-put look, eyes narrowed to icy blue needles trying to pierce into him and drag him into his attention. Ignis obliged him by picking up a skewer. Noctis didn’t release him until he’d taken a bite and chewed, eyes on his the whole time. Only then did Noctis take up his own skewer – one without tomatoes, ever the ten-year-old.

The steak cut beneath his teeth as smoothly as a knife through melted butter. It was basted in a fragrant aegir root reduction of some sort, steeped deep with garlic and crusted with a bursting amalgamation of Galahdian spices. It was served with the special green sauce he remembered as a staple of the islands. It was a recipe that every household knew and insisted was the best one in all of Galahd. There were a hundred variations, each one having but one spice different from every other. But the basic concept was still the same: green tomatoes, onions, chiles, cilantro. It was a cool kick to an already zesty appetizer.

Noctis was watching him from over his own skewer, discerning from his expression whether or not he approved of the dish – and whether or not he had stopped “cooking” in his own head.

“It’s not bad,” Ignis conceded as proof of his attention.

Noct’s eyes slowly widened from their suspicious squint, the lines of his face smoothing back to their soft allure.

“We were both asked out,” he said, suddenly, around a mouthful of meat. “I think he wants to impress you more than he wants to woo me.”

“I’m hardly the authority on Galahdian cuisine,” Ignis said, neatly plucking a tomato from the stick with his teeth, completely aware of Noct’s open admiration as he did so. “There are better chefs than me that he could do with bothering.”

“Come on, Specs” – he was back in his good graces, bless the gods – “Flatter yourself a little. Not every day a dashing Galahdian rogue just pops up across the street to cook for you.”

“You think he’s dashing?”

“Don’t you?”

Ignis avoided that diabolical little smirk he was barely hiding behind the row of steak on his stick. Ignis wasn’t so petty as not to notice Nyx Ulric’s attractiveness. It didn’t mean that he approved of him… though he was hard-pressed to find something wrong with the food thus far.

As if their compliments had summoned him like a spiritual familiar, it was Nyx himself that served their dinner rather than the amiable young man that had been keeping them company all evening.

“Glad you could make it, boys. Pelna tells me you’ve been enjoying everything so far.”

He set their plates in front of them with a delighted grin on his face. For all the chaos of the kitchen, the chefs were excellent presenters. Ignis wasn’t sure how such patient craftsmanship could be fit into the riot of motion and noise within the building that waiters were constantly swinging in and out of.

Noctis had ordered the “Sweet and Spicy Crab Curry.” A whole, blistered red cygillan crab perched possessively over a creamy concoction of golden curry. It smelled like the sea, with strong, peppery notes and a sweet tang of something Ignis couldn’t discern by scent alone. It was already making Noct’s mouth water. His eyes lit up excitedly and he wasted no time diving in.

Nyx presented Ignis with his dish with a touch more flourish, twisting the bowl along the table so the superb presentation was on full display for him. Ignis put on his most unaffected face. Nyx didn’t seem to buy it. The paella certainly _looked_ impressive, a mountain of mollusks and pinkshrimp and fluffy rice drenched in a briny brown sauce. Hints of crab meat and peppers and flaky saltwater fish teased from between the grains of rice. An avalanche of deep-sea delicacy, wreathed in salty steam.

Ignis fully intended to wait until Nyx was gone to test the dish, but the miscreant insisted on pulling up a free chair to observe. He straddled the back of it and folded his arms against the top, grinning with crooked ease as he waited for Ignis to dig in. Noctis was already pleasing him with grunts of satisfaction and a quickly disappearing hunk of crab, completely ignoring the look of perpetual exhaustion on Iggy’s face.

“You don’t have other duties to attend to?” Ignis asked, trying to keep his voice neutral at the warning shot of a glare from Noct.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Nyx assured him. “Besides, I like to get up close and personal with my guests. Especially on opening night.”

“So, you own the place?” Noctis asked, cutting in before Ignis could chance a more terse response than either of them wanted.

“With Libs, yeah. He does the cooking and I work my magic on everything else. Drinks, mostly.”

Ignis narrowed his eyes at the paella, just to have something else to look at other than Nyx’s sly stare. Was Nyx the only witch in the group, then? Or were all of them some sort of spellcrafters? There were different veins of witchcraft in Galahd, he recalled. Different specialties ran in different families - the island nation had a deep, abiding respect for family. Generations stretched far back in their history and power passed down between them for thousands of years. Elemental magics were sectioned off to certain clans bred for wielding it.

Was Libertus a different witch? Or was he just along for the ride? Were any of the staff, full of strangers he’d never seen in the city before, witches in their own rights, too? Or was Nyx the magical nucleus of it all? The only one working spells to travel them between cities?

“Those fish are going to think you’re the one who killed them if you don’t eat ‘em soon.”

Ignis glanced between Nyx and Noctis. Nyx was waiting expectantly for his opinion. Noctis urged him with a look that threatened his bedroom privileges if he didn’t play nice. Ignis wasn’t sure he approved of that little role reversal. He made a mental note to remind Noctis of that when they went home.

While he plotted his paramour’s amorous demise, he finally conceded to try the food. Everything had been superb up until then. There was no doubt in his mind that the paella would prove just as excellent.

He wasn’t disappointed – much as a secret part of him wished he would be.

Despite his grievances about the general existence of That Galahd Shack, in truth, it was faultless. The atmosphere was open and friendly, the décor was authentic and exciting, the service was stellar, and the food was spectacular. It was fresh and hot and invoked a vision of sun-baked sands and maritime sunrises. Everything smelled like adventure, like the perfumes of the earth itself – the deep, rich scents of jungle wilderness in the roasting vegetables, the call of the ocean in the seafood, the amiable cackle of street vendors in the smoke off the grill.

If Ignis hated anything about the place, it was that it was such a perfect representation of what the owners wanted to bring to Insomnia. Just a small taste of a diverse culture, steeped in ancient traditions.

He felt Nyx watching him, weighing the way his jaw work as he chewed; waiting for the right reaction. It was a mistake to meet his gaze, to fall under his spell. He played at being indifferent to Ignis’s opinion, but he could see the eager dance in the back of his steely blue eyes. Little sparks of excitement like two blades crossing. Like the snap of the fires roasting away the spiced meats in the bar window.

“My compliments to Libertus,” Ignis mumbled.

He supposed it was worth it for the smile Noctis snuck him across the table. Nyx beamed with pride. That was all he wanted to hear, it seemed, because he got up and returned the chair to its rightful table.

“I’ll be sure to tell him that. You two enjoy yourselves.”

He strode back into the kitchens. It took Ignis tearing his eyes off the broad expanse of his back to notice that Noctis had turned his head to follow his leave, too. He was entirely unapologetic when he turned back to Ignis, smiling at him like some all-knowing overseer.

“You think he’s a little more than dashing,” Noctis told him.

“I only have eyes for you, Noct.”

“Liar.”

Ignis shot him a glare that only made Noctis chuckle – though he did concede to drop the subject. Ignis wasn’t sure quite how to feel about Nyx Ulric. He didn’t know if he envied him, if he feared him, or if he wanted him. It was likely a cocktail of all three. And he wasn’t sure what that meant in regards to Noctis, either. He seemed to like Nyx. That was where the envy stemmed from, he though. Maybe even a little bit of the fear, too. Perhaps even the want.

It wasn’t something he could entertain thoughts of now. It was too complicated to think about amidst all the noise and the close company of the pavilion. It was something that would be between him and Noctis, whenever he decided it was safe to brave his own heart to untangle these odd little threads of doubt and desire.

In the meantime, he planned out the rest of his evening and how to proceed with the competition of That Galahd Shack when he opened up Specs’ tomorrow. It was hard to think past anything but the savory mouthful of seafood and rice. And the devilish delight in Nyx’s eyes when he’d told him he liked it.

He passed on dessert while Noctis indulged with a chocolate mousse “unlike anything he’d ever tasted before.” He insisted that Ignis try some, gathering a generous dollop of the mahogany fluff on his spoon and presenting it to his closed lips. Ignis rolled his eyes at the childish treatment when they were in public, but Noctis was resolute. Ignis stole the taste as quickly as he could, leaning back in his seat to consider the flavors sparking across his tastebuds.

Cinnamon, he thought. A little touch of cayenne… or was it chili powder? Not chipotle – that would be too strong. There was a smoky note to it though, something like woodfire. It was like tasting one of Noct’s fine wines, full of a canvas of carefully constructed tastes to tantalize the devourer into desiring more. He resisted the temptation. Noctis was only so generous with sharing his portions, anyway. And he was content with his complimentary coffee to finish out the meal.

He asked the waiter – Pelna – about said coffee and Noct’s dessert when he was given the bill and noticed they weren’t charged for it.

“Dessert’s on the house,” Pelna informed them with his easy smile.

He didn’t elaborate. And he didn’t need to. As he was heading back to the kitchens, Ignis spied Nyx in the window, glancing up from mixing drinks to send him a wink before resuming his work.

“I like him,” Noctis announced for only his ears. “You do too?”

Ignis avoided his prying stare, quickly divvying out an appropriate tip worthy of Pelna’s pleasant company. Noctis was prodding him with his smirk the whole handful of sidewalk it took them to get back home. He didn’t get an answer once the apartment door closed behind them. Any questions Noctis might dare to tease him with were abruptly silenced. Ignis would figure out how the hell to deal with Nyx Ulric once he dealt with the delectable nuisance that was his Noctis.


	4. sweetened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Profiteroles are perfect for the purveyors of magical cuisine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an effort to regain some normalcy in what is now to be a six day and still counting power outage, I've been picking at finishing this in between battery charges. I needed something nice to distract me from the general awfulness of everything these past few days. Just a little interlude, not very plotty, but profiteroles are a nice reprieve!

“I wasn’t expecting you to be up this early,” Ignis said.

“Liar.”

The note on the refrigerator had proved otherwise. Unless it was the kitchen that he wanted to know he’d “ _Popped out for a spell”_ – ha freaking ha, Ignis. Noctis didn’t need to press him for his guilt any deeper than that. Ignis was quick enough to confess with a fleeting glance and a lowered head. It wasn’t quite enough to guilt him into putting down the scraper though.

“As much as I enjoyed our night out, I’m afraid that I left one too many things undone. We can’t well open with cement stoves now, can we?”

“Specs? We’ve talked about this. Sundays are for scones, not for scraping the kitchen stoves.”

He’d worked so hard for those Sundays. He had nigh on starved and sweated and quivered a close to sobbing lip for those Sundays. He had figuratively bled for this one day of the week off for Specs’. It was the proudest guilt trip he had ever put together, and it had lasted Noct years of shutting himself in late with Ignis to taste-test scones specifically crafted _without_ Specs’ in mind.

So, when he woke up to Ignis’s elegant scrawl on a refrigerator note instead of Ignis’s experimental scone recipes that morning, Noctis felt legitimately close to devastated.

He was as confused as Ignis when he finally ceased his rigorous scraping. He blinked up at Noct from behind his glasses, lips moving around a silent “Sunday?” as if he didn’t fully understand the word he was accused of tarnishing.

“Sunday,” he realized, out loud. “We’re closed… Forgive me, Noct. I seem to be off my days.”

Well, that just couldn’t possibly be correct. Ignis was the most diligent, borderline anal retentive person he’d ever met when it came to scheduling. He’d honed himself a healthy respect for time, valuing every hour he allotted for each activity that comprised his day. One hour before opening to prep the ovens and prepare the food and loosen the wards and shoot the breeze with the incoming staff. The twelve to ten of careful, comforting crafting in the kitchen – with appropriately timed breaks enforced throughout. Then, the slow and sultry wind-down into midnight, where Noctis could coax the timepiece from his wrist and convince him that they had all the time in the world.

Sundays were timeless. Sundays were turning all the clocks to face the wall and following the color of the sky to guide their day. Sundays were for the spells to sleep and the scones to satisfy. It was for putting Ignis’s tricky fingers to a more private use. The only mantra Noctis would let him chant on these precious, resting days was his name.

It was not a day that Ignis allowed himself to forget.

“You okay, Specs?”

Noctis was prepared for the lie. He was ready for the way Ignis would pause for barely a beat to compose himself a smile and pretend that Noctis couldn’t see straight through it. He was already pushing himself off the wall where he was leaning to cross the kitchen and scold him for thinking he could tell him anything but the truth.

And Ignis was already surrendering the smile for a sigh before Noctis was even halfway to him.

“I confess that I’ve been a tad distracted as of late.”

“Just a tad?”

Ignis scoffed, rolling his eyes in the general direction of the Shack. Anything greater than a “tad” distracted would be flattering the object of that distraction far too much for either of their egos to withstand.

“I fear I’m learning that I’m less accustomed to change than I might have hoped,” he went on, sponging absently at a fading stain against the stove-top.

“You sure that’s what you fear?”

Noctis didn’t buy that excuse. Adaptability was part of being a chef – and a magical one at that. Ignis was prepared for every eventuality. He had put out grease-fires before they were even a lick of flame against the wall, caught collapsing plates before a server knew they were off balance, and if a delivery truck was late, he could revise the entire menu to accommodate for the ingredients they still had, well before the first customer was seated. He’d spent far too much of his life in the ever-changing climate of the kitchen to be anything but at ease around it.

Noctis hovered beside Ignis, watching him scrub at the barely existent grime just to have an excuse not to look him in the eye. Noctis pressed a hand into the crook of Ignis’s elbow, urging his arm to still and his eyes to lift. Noctis raised a brow and waited. He didn’t have to wait long.

“I don’t know that I fear,” Ignis explained, pursing his lips as he tried to find the right words. “I feel… oddly anxious? Marginally overwhelmed? The Galahdians are a little… a lot, shall we say.”

“The Galahdians, plural? Or the Galahdian, singular?”

Ignis shook his head and adamantly refused to indulge the smirk on Noct’s face. That was fine. Noctis didn’t need a clarification. He could understand either answer.

He himself had never experienced Galahdian culture. At least, not nearly as authentically as Nyx and his associates presented it. The tiny, fast food chains dotted throughout the city were mere parodies of the cuisine by comparison, owned and operated by pretenders to the exotic promises of the islands. He’d tried them once or twice by himself, and once with Ignis – which marked the official end of those curious little ventures.

“If you ever want Galahdian food,” Ignis had said, just shy of within earshot of one of the employees behind the counter. “I could make you something better with barely a year’s experience than this place has in ten.”

Ignis had taken great offense to whatever embarrassments to the culture they apparently served at the place. And he wasn’t even Galahdian. That had made Noctis smile.

The barely concealed respect for the dishes they’d had the previous night had made him smile more.

“You’ll get used to it, Specs,” Noctis assured him. “Besides, it’s not like they’re gunning for your business. You know I’d infiltrate their stock with bad beer if they were.”

“My devious little hero.”

Ignis smiled. A better smile than the ones he’d been trying to pass off. A more honest smile. Noctis curled himself up along his chest to kiss that smile.

“You know that you’re going to have to work overtime to make up for missing my morning scones, right?”

“Without question. Such an awful affront must be paid for in…” Ignis thought for a moment, rifling through his mental collection of recipes before deciding on proper recompense. “Profiteroles?”

“I may consider your debt paid. But only if you throw in a batch of the sheep cheese ones for good measure.”

“Feeling savory, are we?”

“And a little sweet, of course.”

“More than a little.”

Ignis craned down to kiss his cheek, as chaste as the sentiment and earning all of Noct’s forgiveness.

While profiteroles were far more involved than the more relaxed intent behind the Sunday morning scone, Noctis knew that Ignis was grateful for being given the process. It demanded more focus than he could give to his doubts or his worries or whatever it was that fretted around in his thoughts.

And it was wonderful to watch.

Arms. Profiterole dough was all arms. Butter and eggs and arms, stirring and working and coaxing all of those ingredients together into the airy delicacy of the Accordon delight. Noctis wasn’t sure which was more delicious: the confections themselves or the sight of Iggy’s sleeves folded neatly over his elbows as he mixed. He didn’t know what looked tastier: the thick, buttery brown in the bowl or the smooth dusty freckles across Ignis’s skin, shifting over the subtle flexes of the muscle as he moved.

“Your ogling is a recipe for disaster,” Ignis told him. “Not a recipe for pastry.”

“Don’t think I’d mind a little disaster with you.”

Somehow, they managed to avoid a catastrophe of any such sort. Mostly to the credit of Ignis disengaging Noct’s arms from around his waist by putting him to task setting the table. While his paramour was distracted with his task, Ignis piped the delicate batter into uniform swirls across a baking sheet. They patiently baked into light golden clouds, warming the kitchen with the scent of butter binding into flour.

Ignis whipped up the fillings while the pillows of pastry plumped up. He started with a savory concoction of tangy sheep’s cheese, cutting the pungency with a lighter, plainer cheese before mixing in lots of fragrant herbs. Rosemary and thyme for love and healing, a little bit of sage just because it tasted good, a pinch of salt, and a crack of black pepper. Then, a sweet, snowy-white cream perfumed with lavender and a drizzle of honey for dessert.

Noctis put on water for tea while Ignis filled each pastry with cream. The savory profiteroles were brushed with melted garlic butter and the sweet ones dusted with a fine rain of sugar. Ignis set the two plates of puffy morsels upon the table Noctis had set – one of the outdoor tables, just underneath the awning with a view of the front street. The Shack slumbered across the way, shuttered to sleep after the long hours of nighttime reveling, not a charismatic conjurer in sight.

All was quiet. All was quite nearly normal, in fact.

It was often quiet this time of Sunday morning. It was one of the rare breaths the city took to steady itself amidst the chaotic transit of the days. It was a reminder of humanity wheezing between the mechanical. This hour was air in a lung rather than oil against a cog.

It was the natural magic of the world that Ignis drew from. It was steady and subdued, gentle as a caress between lavender-scented sheets. The light washed, pale and warm, across the yawning street. It was perfect for admiring profiteroles – and their patissier.

Noctis went straight for one of the sweet ones, plucking up a dainty dessert with all the care of a diamond salesman. A brow curled inquisitively against Ignis’s forehead.

“Not quite fit for a photo?” he asked, smiling at the absence of Noct’s phone – he was almost as bad as Prompto some days, trying to capture the aesthetic excellence of any dish set before him.

“I can’t go telling all of your secrets,” Noctis told him. “That would ruin the magic.”

“I may just make a magician out of you yet.”

“Too much work. Plus, these are too tempting.”

He would eat most of the recipes before ever casting a spell on them if he was half as masterful a cook as Ignis was. Besides, he much preferred reaping the rewards of Ignis’s labor than whatever monstrosity might have scourged his stomach if crafted from his own hands.

One bite of the creampuff was a satin sheet of sweetness over his tongue. The flavors were as fine as ivory silk, subtle as the wisps of late summer clouds parting for the dawn overhead. It tasted of faraway fields full of flowers and bees, like a scene off the canvas of an Altissian street artist.

“Are you doing that?” Noctis asked in a dreamy, contented hum. “Or are these just that good?”

“Rest assured that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

As if that were true, either. Whether he put a spell in his specialties or not, Ignis knew the effect his food had on people. It was transporting, delivering a person to a place of comfort within one, single bite. They didn’t leave that place until well after they’d left Specs’. It followed them home in a happy little haze, until distance and digestion dissolved the connection.

“Would I be too bold in assuming I’ve been forgiven?” Ignis asked as Noctis moaned around the last swallow of the first of many creampuffs.

“Are you ever not? Too bold, I mean.”

“I’d like to think I’m rather humble, actually.”

Noctis grinned at the proud rise of Ignis’s spine straightening to his defense. He brought his teacup to his lips, one deft spin of the spoon mixing his preferences perfectly into the steeped water. A few drops of lemon juice and a spoonful of cream always accompanied his hot cup of bergamot tea. Because Noctis said so.

“Ah,” Ignis breathed over the steam of his first sip. “Perfect as always, Noct.”

He might not be able to spellbind the sense quite as spectacularly as Ignis could with food, but Noctis knew how to pair a good drink with any meal. He knew that he was good at his job when Ignis flattered him with a satisfied, “You just might be magic yourself.”

This was much better. This was how it always was. This was Noct’s day to make Ignis the focus whereas Ignis made Specs’ and its people his focus all the rest. He deserved to get a little bit back for all of that, at least. He deserved to lean back in his chair, with his cup of tea, and relish in all of his accomplishment. And he especially deserved the compliment from the attractive stranger across the street.

“Now that’s a work of art right there. Those look so pretty that I wouldn’t have the heart to serve them at my place.”

Nyx strolled into view just beyond the fence of Specs’ outdoor seating. He had a paper bag of bagels cradled in one arm and a cup of coffee in the other. There was a faint mist of sweat drying against his skin, tanned arms bared by a tight tee, his ashy-black hair just shy of slick. He was just coming down from a work-out, sneakers and sweats slouching the defined lines of his legs that dark blue jeans had previously boasted around. Noctis could see the memory of that admiration stamped behind Ignis’s eyes as he retreated his stare back down to his tea.

“You do seem to attract a more ravenous crowd,” he said, mildly. “These might be a little too fragile to withstand them.”

“Company wasn’t to your liking last night, chef?”

Ignis paused, a frown forming between his brows as he considered whether or not his tone had been more offensive than he might have intended. A fleeting glance up at Nyx’s perpetual smirk comforted him from any fear of insult – and flustered him, though no one knew him well enough to tell. No one but Noctis, who concealed his smile in his teacup when he spotted the falter in Iggy’s steadfast gaze.

“It was lively,” Ignis corrected himself, looking straight ahead, somewhere past Noctis where Nyx wasn’t standing and smirking. “A different experience, but overall, an enjoyable one.”

Ignis may have been trying to avoid the effect Nyx had on him, but Noctis certainly didn’t miss the way Nyx’s eyes lit up at the endorsement.

“That’s what I like to hear. Well, I’ve bothered you boys enough the past couple of days and will most likely be bothering you more than enough for the rest of them. I won’t bother you now, enjoy your breakfast.”

He turned to head home, and while his back was to him, Ignis braved another glance at the broad shoulders that had been his first sight of the man the night he came to Specs’. It was a quick decision, barely a moment spent meeting Noct’s knowing stare to gain his consent before the offer flitted past his lips.

“Would you care to try one?”

Nyx turned back, lips on his paper cup and eyes wide with surprise. Ignis had never been hostile with him – his uncle had raised him right, damnit, he knew his manners – but his hospitality had been rather… tight, when it came to his new neighbors. He’d never met any witch so bold as to appear a restaurant in one night, especially not in a city of such modern sensibilities. It was harrowing, that first day, trying to understand if it was merely coincidence or deliberate – or a threat, at that. But the Galahdians seemed to be well-practiced in whatever magic they made to spirit themselves into a new city. So far, they seemed safe enough. Might be safer still to make a friend of them, at least.

“These a specialty of yours?” Nyx asked as he slinked around the little fence to join them.

“Of a sort.”

“One of my favorites,” Noctis chimed in. “That’s what makes them special.”

Nyx smiled at him, a fondness on his face that Ignis was well acquainted with. Nyx seemed to remember himself as Ignis looked at him, schooling his features to concentrate on the proffered dish at hand. Noctis suggested the savory puffs with a silent slide closer of the plate. Nyx lifted a profiterole, shining with garlicky butter, and raised it as if in a toast.

One bite. The first taste was the most important one. A chef had to astound and inspire their guest in a single bite. He had to promise them a meal worthy of their patronage, invite them back for another, and imbibe his gratitude for choosing his place to delight them, all in one bite.

Nyx was reduced from his height of charismatic confidence to a moaning, eye-rolling state of deference. His whole body slumped on a whine of satisfaction, face creasing as if trapped in a rapturous moment somewhere between the pleasure of the flavors and the pain of how fleeting every taste of them would be.

“This is just criminal, chef.”

“He’s a sinner like that,” Noctis agreed, much to Iggy’s embarrassment.

“Well then, keep on sinning. _Damn._ ” Nyx finished the savory, herby bite, licking any errant drops of cream from his fingers. “Can’t say we have anything quite like that back home?”

“What do you have?” Noctis asked, trading glances with Ignis to pick up the questions he was too afraid to ask.

Nyx smiled. “If you want, I could show you. Swing by after hours? My treat.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

Ignis ducked into his teacup again at Noct’s brazen flirtation, lapping up a dollop of cream himself to punctuate his meaning. Nyx didn’t miss it, nor did his face fail to flush in a conflict between desire and decorum. Another feeling Ignis knew well when it came to Noct.

“I’ll see you boys tonight, then,” Nyx said, nodding to each of them in turn.

Once he had vanished into the Shack, steps a little quicker than they had been before, Ignis rolled his eyes at Noctis. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it.”


End file.
